


Shape of you

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Yum-yum Mycroft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Chubby Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft's body appreciation, Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, fat kink, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: There's a reason why the TAB Mycroft is fat. Sherlock has a fat kink.





	Shape of you

Sherlock can't tear his eyes away from Mycroft. Watching his brother undress often amuses him, countless buttons, layers and the obsessive need to fold neatly each item of clothing. But when the waistcoat is off and the braces, Mycroft start to unbutton his shirt and then Sherlock smiles for an entirely different reason. It has taken years to have at least the bedside lamp on and even longer to stare openly without ruining Mycroft's mood.

Even now, Mycroft avoids his eyes as he takes his shirt off. He still does not feel completely comfortable with his own body. His old insecurities do no let him enjoy Sherlock's appreciative gaze, the voice of the chubby, awkward boy whispers to him that it's all a cruel joke. His anxiety is so transparent that Sherlock keeps his comments to himself. No words are needed, talking would only spoil his enjoyment. He stretches on his back, strokes his erection lazily and feasts his eyes while he can. Broad shoulders sprinkled with freckles, surprisingly muscular arms, hairy chest. Sherlock unconsciously licks his lips and he looks lower. Mycroft's stomach, soft, slightly rounded, in Sherlock's view, perfect. The layer of padding noticeably thinner than when they began their incestuous experiment. He is so caught up in his lustful thoughts and memories that he doesn't notice how fast his hand is moving, wrapped tightly around himself until Mycroft joins him on the bed and catches his wrist. 'Wait for me,' he says, a part of him flattered by how his nudity affects Sherlock.

Sherlock wants to say something witty, but all he can think about is how very naked and close to him Mycroft is at the moment. Vulnerable without his armour of a well-tailored three-piece suit, consumed with desire he has tried to ignore but failed. Sherlock leans forward, kisses him hungrily, lets his hands wander. He starts from the top, palm Mycroft's cheeks, slides down to his chest, brushes his thumbs aginst his nipples until they harden and hopes the pleasant sensations distract him long enough to touch his belly for longer than few seconds. Mycroft doesn't tolerate belly rubs as much as stray cats and while he doesn't bite or claw at Sherlock's hands, he breaks the kiss and pushes Sherlock away. 'Don't,' he warns when Sherlock reaches once again to his muffin top. It's an addiction, Sherlock wants to say, he can't help himself. He fantasises about Mycroft's body, imagines he's finally given permission to explore it without getting smacked and shoved away whenever he gets close to a particularly tempting area.

To show his good intentions and stop Mycroft from leaving him unsatisfied, he lies on his back. Mycroft's pout vanishes when Sherlock spread his legs invitingly. This is his favourite position, Mycroft's, for someone so uniquely gifted, powerful and with such intense incestuous cravings, he's surprisingly old-fashioned. Vanilla is not only his favourite flavour of ice cream. Slow, tender sex, whispered endearments, nothing alarmingly kinky. Sherlock does not mind, his dirty mind produces enough filthy thoughts for both of them.

It's always a struggle to persuade Mycroft to lie on top of him without leaning on his elbows. Sherlock usually waits until Mycroft is inside him to minimise the risk of being asked to leave and to use the muscles in his arse to get what he wants. And it's to have Mycroft's body weight press him into the mattress. This time, Mycroft gives in rather quickly, resigned and still endearingly worried about Sherlock's well-being. 'Are you sure you can breathe? I'm afraid I've gained a pound and a half lately.' Sherlock purrs contentedly against his neck. Mycroft's solid bulk feels wonderful against his slim body, he can get off this alone.

He keeps his hands to Mycroft's back and buttocks, digs his fingers into the soft flesh, kneads it with his fingers. It is easier to fight the impulse to grab the folds of skin on Mycroft's belly, not only due to limited access. Mycroft moves against him, his thrusts are shallow and gentle, each rock of his hips results in Sherlock's prick sliding against his stomach. The sensation is almost as pleasurable as the constant stimulation of the numerous nerve endings between his legs. He knows he's smearing pre-ejaculate on Mycroft's skin. It's filthy and hot, even though Mycroft kisses his neck affectionately and minds not to take him roughly. Sherlock groans, Mycroft is indeed heavier than the last time and the relaxed rhythm is not making it any easier. The discomfort only brings him closer to the edge, he squirms impatiently under his brother, wraps his legs around Mycroft's thighs to encourage a deeper penetration, moans when Mycroft takes the hint.

Sherlock loves the frantic moments before the orgasm. His pants, begs Mycroft to do it harder, faster, clenches down on him, writhes helplessly. His desperation pleases Mycroft, there's no doubt about it, He mouths at Sherlock's blushed cheeks, kisses his lips, slides his tongue inside his mouth. Sometimes he pushes his hand between their bodies to make Sherlock come sooner. Now, however, he chooses to tighten his grip around Sherlock's shoulders and presses his hips deeper against his bottom. Sherlock gasps, taken by surprise, shudders all over, dazed by the intensity of it and by Mycroft's initiative. He's too boneless to stop Mycroft from sitting up, he misses the delicious feeling of being crushed under him but now he can watch Mycroft.

Mycroft takes hold of his hips and fills him, again and again, no longer concerned with Sherlock's comfort. His eyes are closed, mouth opened, he's lost in pleasure and ignores Sherlock's staring. He is aware of the evidence of Sherlock's orgasm on his belly and knows how much Sherlock wants to clean it with his tongue. Little licks and open-mouthed kisses and light bites, Sherlock salivates at the thought. Mycroft pushes in as deep as he can and freezes, his long, low groan sounds so delightful. It's obscene, the way he releases into Sherlock's body, the squelch that accompanies the last, uncoordinated jerks of his hips and the wetness soaking into sheets when he pulls out. He sits on his heels, gasping for air, flushed and exhausted and beautiful. 

'You're... insatiable,' he remarks tiredly and cautiously palms Sherlock's not entirely flaccid member.

Sherlock arches into the touch. 'I assure you, this is a natural reaction to watching you come.'

 

His kink can be easily explained. He associates a couple of extra pounds with safety. A chubby Mycroft protected him when he was little and hugging his soft, round body was far more comforting than being pressed against Daddy's bony chest. 

Sherlock regrets not having confessed his unbrotherly feelings earlier, before Mycroft's long journey with dieting. The struggle not to fall back into old habits requires a lot of willpower and Sherlock has supported him or at least intended to do so. Perhaps long, detailed descriptions of his wet dreams and fantasies about Mycroft's flabby stomach were not particularly helpful, but enthusiastic oral sex in the garden shed was. Vigorous sex has helped Mycroft shed quite a lot of weight without wasting time on cycling or running.

From the purely logical point of view, Mycroft has made a good choice. He is healthier, happier. He no longer avoids people out of fear of being mocked for his physical appearance, now he does it just because he can't stand those who are intellectually inferior to him. Sherlock knows how miserable Mycroft used to be, caught in the vicious circle of hunger and guilt. Therefore, Sherlock does not reveal how insanely aroused he is at the thought of feeding Mycroft in bed. Empty calories, full-fat dairy, complex carbohydrates, indulgent comfort food. Instead, he tries to make Mycroft feel comfortable with his body, Mycroft still hasn't reached his target weight and his age, irregular schedule and stress make his goal even more unrealistic.

The nature of their unusual relationship has to remain a secret, yet not even the fear of the consequences can stop Sherlock from asking from time to time how Mycroft's diet is going. It's beyond him why John does not become suspicious or at least curious about this fixation. Defensive and irritated, Mycroft misinterprets the question. He has been anxiously anticipating the time when Sherlock will lose interest in his unfit body. He does not notice how huge Sherlock's pupils are and how he shifts to hide a sudden bulge in his trousers. It does not matter that John is right there with them and Mrs Hudson downstairs. Sherlock wants to sit in Mycroft's lap, unbutton his waistcoat with his teeth, slide to the floor and lick, suck and tongue every inch of Mycroft, consume him and devour. He jolts back to reality to see Mycroft still secretly hurt and insecure and John oblivious as always.

 

He's glad there is a place where his controversial preferences are completely guilt-free. In his mind palace, obesity is not a disease, doesn't affect Mycroft negatively. His gluttony is not caused by an illness nor is it a stress relief. Though obese, he has no issues with self-esteem. He has let himself go out of sheer pleasure of doing what he truly loves: eating whatever he wants and limiting his physical activity to sex with Sherlock. 

Sherlock usually slips into the palace at night, provided he's not busy with a case. He opens the door to a very special room. There is no furniture inside except for an abnormally large bed. Hardly any space left, Sherlock hastily toes off his shoes and sheds his clothes still in the hallway then kneels on the bed and crawls towards Mycroft. He is in the centre of the bed, enormous, as naked as the day he was born but unlike the real Mycroft, he shows no signs of nervousness. He knows Sherlock will not taunt him or criticise, no, in that special room, the brothers never bicker. Sherlock is always too preoccupied with fulfilling his sexual fantasies.

Mycroft sighs, contented when Sherlock is finally on top of him. The size difference excites them. Sherlock's slim hands roam all over Mycroft's massive chest, the stark contrast between their bodies is as arousing as the kisses they share. The faint taste of chocolate lingers on Mycroft's tongue and Sherlock rubs it with his own. This Mycroft is slower and lets his brother take charge, he's satisfied with placing his heavy, large hands on Sherlock's buttocks.

Sherlock begins with Mycroft's neck, bites, worries the skin between his teeth. He repeats the process when he slides lower and reaches folds of skin on Mycroft's sides. He methodically licks each and every one of them, sucks the loose skin into his mouth and hums in delight. Mycroft sounds happy as well, does not rush Sherlock, lets him satisfy his needs.

Sherlock tongues and nibbles Mycroft's nipples whilst massaging the softness of his sizable belly with his eager hands. He squeezes handfuls of it greedily, then travels further down, pauses at Mycroft's stomach. Without hesitation, he buries his face in the warmth, instantly feels his usual worries leaving him for the time being. Mycroft threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair with such tenderness that something inside Sherlock melts. He's glad his face is hidden.

He shifts back, reaches under the fat rolls to find Mycroft's girth, hard and leaking onto his fingers. He pumps it with his fist for a moment or two, then comes closer and closes his mouth around the head. He sucks lightly, teasingly, wants to draw it out, give Mycroft as much pleasure as possible. He swirls his tongue around the tip, licks at the slit and moves forward. His mouth is filled, the weight heavy on his tongue, he bobs his head at a steady, slow rhythm. One hand wrapped around the root, stroking upwards until it meets Sherlock's lips, the other cups the testicles. Mycroft gasps out his name, tries to thrust into his mouth, but it would take too much effort. Sherlock understands and relaxes his throat, leans forward until once again his face is pressed into Mycroft's belly. He pulls away with regret and quickly repeats the motion, revelling in the groans Mycroft's cannot stiffle. Sherlock isn't entirely sure why he likes it, his jaw hurts, he struggles to breathe and his chin is wet, there's no physical reward for him, but he performs with passion. Mycroft appreciates it, gasps one last time and comes straight into Sherlock's throat. 

Sherlock lifts up, covers Mycroft's body with his own, seeks his lips to share the aftertaste. Mycroft lets Sherlock in and after a moment, his hands rests on Sherlock's arse. It's an invitation. Sherlock rocks against Mycroft's chubby belly, rubs his hardness against it. The sensation of sliding against the skin, slick with his precome, is intoxicating. He never wants it to stop, but the sheer excitement of using Mycroft's fat for his pleasure makes him move faster. The way Mycroft squeezes his cheeks is not helping either. It's over too soon, Sherlock whimpers against Mycroft's neck and shivers. The languorous bliss is sweeter when he remembers he can and will clean the mess he made with his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is not how mind palace works, but I needed a drug-free shaggity shag adventure with fat Mycroft. I am not sorry about this absolute rock bottom of fanfiction.


End file.
